Chapter 8 - The Ambush at Pier 42
Inside the master library, Don Falcone sat comfortably on a green velvet settee, tapping his gold-plated lighter against the edge of an ornate glass ashtray.
“It’s a terrible tragedy, Luca,” Falcone said, shaking his gray head with an expression of exaggerated grief.
“The Bellinis are an old family, but Antonio has lost his mind over this broken wedding.”
“He’s threatening to turn the entire South Side against your supply lines.”
Luca stood by the fireplace, pouring amber scotch into two crystal tumblers without looking at his guest.
Sal sat quietly in the shadows by the corner bookcase, his hands resting flat on his knees, completely ignored by the visiting boss.
“Antonio thinks he can seize my father’s docks with municipal injunctions,” Luca remarked, handing a glass to Falcone.
Falcone took a generous sip, letting out an appreciative breath.
“Well, you know how city politics work, kid.”
“Vance has the maritime police in his pocket, and Antonio has the judges.”
“If you try to fight them in the courts, your shipping operations will be frozen for six months.”
“Your cash flow will dry up before the snow melts.”
Falcone leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, adopting the posture of a benevolent uncle offering salvation.
“Sell me your shares in Pier 42, Luca.”
“I’ll step in as the neutral operator.”
“Antonio respects my relationship with the West Side council, and Vance won't dare impound my freight.”
“You take sixty million in clean Swiss bonds, walk away from the docks, and focus on your real estate downtown.”
Luca took a slow sip from his own glass, his eyes dark and completely unreadable.
“Sixty million is very generous, Don Falcone.”
Falcone beamed, believing he had outmaneuvered the younger man with effortless ease.
“I do it out of respect for your late father, Luca.”
“Vincent was a brother to me.”
From the shadowed corner of the library, Sal’s dry, raspy voice suddenly cut through the air.
“If Vincent was your brother, Dino, why did you pay his personal physician sixty thousand dollars the night he died?”
Falcone froze in mid-breath, his smile locking into a bizarre, grotesque grimace.
The crystal glass in his right hand trembled, sending a tiny ripple across the surface of the scotch.
He turned slowly toward the bookcase, squinting at the old man sitting in the dim lamplight.
“What did you say, old man?” Falcone growled, the friendly warmth instantly vanishing from his voice.
Sal stood up slowly, walking into the center of the library with measured, deliberate steps.
He pulled a thin, blue leather notebook from inside his driving coat and tossed it onto the glass table directly in front of Falcone.
The notebook was stained with grease and dated October fourteenth, nineteen ninety-nine.
“Vincent Moretti didn't die of natural heart failure, Dino,” Sal said, his voice dropping into a register of chilling absolute certainty.
“He died of digitalis toxicity administered through his daily intravenous saline bags.”
“And the only person who visited Dr. Robert Henderson’s private clinic in Oak Park three hours before Vincent went into cardiac arrest was you.”
Falcone’s face drained of color until his skin resembled wet parchment.
“This is ridiculous,” Falcone stammered, his eyes darting toward the heavy library doors.
“This is the senile hallucination of a retired chauffeur who should have been buried in a pauper’s grave ten years ago!”
“I drove you there, Dino,” Sal whispered, taking another step forward until he stood directly over the seated boss.
“Have you forgotten?”
“It was raining, just like last night.”
“Vincent had sent me to pick you up from the Union station because your own town car had a cracked radiator.”
“You told me to stop at Henderson’s clinic for five minutes so you could pick up allergy medication for your sister.”
Sal leaned down, his weathered, lined face coming within inches of Falcone’s bulging eyes.
“I sat outside with the engine running.”
“And I watched you hand a brown leather envelope to Henderson through the back door of the pharmacy.”
Luca stepped forward, setting his drink down on the mantelpiece with a sound that seemed to shatter the room.
His presence filled the library like a suffocating dark storm.
“Henderson died in a mysterious boating accident on Lake Michigan three weeks after my father’s funeral,” Luca said, his voice a terrifying whisper.
“The police called it an accidental drowning.”
“Did you push him over the railing yourself, Falcone, or did Antonio Bellini provide the crew?”
Falcone scrambled to his feet, knocking his crystal glass onto the Persian rug where the amber liquid spread like a pool of poison.
He reached frantically inside his cashmere coat for the snub-nosed revolver concealed in his shoulder holster.
Before his hand could clear the lapel, Luca’s left arm struck like a striking viper.
Luca grabbed Falcone’s wrist, twisting the joint backward with sickening force until the bone snapped with a wet, splintering crack.
Falcone screamed in agony, his knees buckling beneath him as he dropped to the floor.
Sal stepped in smoothly, caught the falling revolver before it hit the carpet, and tucked it into his own coat pocket with practiced grace.
“Thirty-four years, Dino,” Sal murmured, looking down at the writhing man with profound disgust.
“I watched you smile at Vincent’s dinner table while you were measuring him for a coffin.”
Luca dragged Falcone up by his collar, hauling him across the room and pinning him against the heavy oak paneling.
“Pier 42 belongs to the Moretti family,” Luca said, his eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying vengeance.
“And by midnight tonight, your entire West Side network will be handed over to Frank Kowalski and the union captains.”
Falcone gasped for breath, his face slick with cold sweat.
“You can't touch me, Luca… the council will tear you apart!”
“The council doesn't protect men who poison their own brothers,” Luca replied coldly.
He looked toward the library door.
“Tony!”
The heavy doors swung open instantly, and Tony stepped inside with two armed security officers carrying heavy zip-ties.
“Take Don Falcone down to the wine cellar under the north terrace,” Luca instructed.
“Strip his communication devices, bind his wrists, and make sure he has water.”
“If he speaks a single word, break his other wrist.”
Tony grabbed Falcone by his good arm and dragged him out of the room, leaving a faint trail of scotch and sweat along the polished parquet floor.
Luca stood in the center of the library, his chest heaving slightly as he looked at the blue leather notebook on the table.
“You knew, Sal?” Luca asked quietly, a profound pain echoing in his voice.
“You knew about my father all these years?”
Sal looked down at his calloused hands, his eyes filled with decades of accumulated grief.
“I suspected it, Luca.”
“I didn't have the proof until Henderson’s widow died last spring and her attorney cleared out her safety deposit box in Cicero.”
“The attorney was Vincent’s third cousin.”
“He brought me Henderson’s private diary three days before your engagement dinner.”
Sal looked up, meeting Luca’s gaze with absolute, unyielding love.
“I couldn't give it to you until I knew who was standing behind Falcone.”
“Last night, when Vanessa brought that red mitten into the light, every piece of the puzzle finally snapped together.”
“Antonio Bellini gave the order.”
“Falcone delivered the poison.”
“And they’ve spent twenty-five years waiting for this family to wither away and die.”
Luca reached out, took the blue notebook from the table, and slipped it into his breast pocket directly against his heart.
“Sal.”
“Yes, kid?”
“Get the Suburban loaded with Leo’s oxygen tanks.”
May you like
Luca’s eyes flashed with absolute, lethal determination.
“We are taking the service road to Kenosha right now.”
